


seeks to devour

by shotacatboy



Category: Shall We Date?: Obey Me!
Genre: Blood and Gore, M/M, Mentioned Character Death, basically beel gets his first taste of long pig, slight angst, twincest if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:40:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26544634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shotacatboy/pseuds/shotacatboy
Summary: Belphegor mutters something, distantly, but his head feels as if it’s submerged in water. All sensations are muted save for the raw tang that fills his mouth and sends a gratifying shiver throughout his entire being, urging him onward as his fingers sink into the stomach, claws unsheathed and ruthless and brutal in how easily they descend in the layers of his meal.He dips his head to lick at the blood that cascades forth and becomes briefly aware that he may now be soaked in it, but pays the thought no mind as he plants gentle kisses along the jawline, leaving red, mouth-shaped stamps where he goes.Or: Beel eats his first human.
Relationships: Beelzebub/Belphegor (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 46





	seeks to devour

**Author's Note:**

  * For [camakitsune](https://archiveofourown.org/users/camakitsune/gifts).



> this is a commission for cama, who requested belphie coercing beel into eating his first human. i've never written anything like this before so it was definitely a fun challenge!

Functions in the Devildom are meticulous, though in a way exceedingly different from those in the Celestial Realm. The warm, pulsating light that exists in the latter is in complete contrast to the seemingly endless darkness that envelops the former, an everlasting shadow that looms over its occupants and leaves them full of bitter, scathing cold.

Time, too, holds as much relevance here as the cobwebs forming on the cracks in the walls, passing in a vacuum and showing little to no variation. It is difficult to even discern the seasons from one another when there is always merciless chill, with a surprising lack of visible representation signifying change save for the darkened colors of the sky.

Gloomy as his surroundings are, it is difficult for Beelzebub to believe he is already growing accustomed to them—especially when memories of his life in the Celestial Realm still roam fresh in his mind, like he might one day open his eyes and find himself awake under the blinding sun, curled up beside Lilith and Belphegor as they nap the day away.

Yet he knows that this isn’t a fantasy, and that no matter how hard he wishes to return to the way things once were it will never come to pass. The only semblance of his past that exists is in his dreams, but even such bright memories are clouded by his own guilt.

His happy recollections never last him long. In the end he always sees the war, sees Lilith—sees the arrow that pierced her wing, her agonized expression, and how she dropped down from the sky, plummeting down into depths unknown.

(Crisply, he can also recall the way Belphegor’s anguished cry filled his ears then, shrill and broken by a cough as he spat out the golden ichor rising from his throat. Beelzebub’s arms shook as he held him, clutching him close from where he’d saved him in Lilith’s place. Full of pain. Regret. Playing what-ifs in his mind as loud ringing resounded in his ears, unnoticed in his attempts to process what had just transpired.)

Then, the Fall. In his remembrance he can perceive the wind whipping past him harshly as he cascaded downward at unprecedented speeds, eyes screwed shut and nose filled with the distinct smell of burning feathers and melting skin, and a fiery sensation consuming him that threatened to turn him to ash.

He does not remember the impact. He only knows waking in a crater and flexing his wings to see they were no longer white, but shining and translucent, buzzing as they fluttered uselessly through the foggy air.

_ Where’s Lilith? _

It’s what he’d asked Belphegor when he found him in a similar crater some distance away, and again when they happened upon each of their brothers in turn. When at last they found Lucifer, who now sported two less wings and a darkened expression, he merely shook his head and confirmed what Beelzebub already knew to be true but could not believe despite it. Despite everything.

_ She’s gone. _

And just like that Beelzebub fell, again.

He can feel it, still, the wonder at what he could have done differently were he able to return to that day. There  _ must  _ have been a way, he thinks, to save them both, one he’d been too foolish to act upon in his haste.

He stirs. He turns in his sleep and scarcely hears a gasp resound from under him.

“Beel—”

He lets out a grunt and moves over more. The same voice sounds again, louder now.

_ “Beel!  _ Wake up!”

Beelzebub’s eyes snap open. On instinct his hands shoot out to locate the source of the noise. He lets out a shocked sound when he realizes his fingers have curled into the fabric of Belphegor’s shirt, pulling tighter than he’s safe admitting.

He releases. Belphegor, wide-eyed only for a moment, collapses back onto the mattress and fixes Beelzebub with a concerned look.

“Wow,” he says, scarcely above a whisper. “You really  _ were  _ having a nightmare.”

“I’m sorry,” Beelzebub replies, embarrassed. A blush dusts his cheeks and he abruptly turns his face away. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”

Belphegor’s hand lands on his face, urging their eyes to meet. To Beelzebub’s surprise he seems unbothered at having his sleep interrupted. “Don’t be sorry. Just tell me what’s wrong.”

“It’s…” Beelzebub swallows the lump in his throat, grasping for the right words.  _ I don’t wanna make him upset.  _ “Nothing. Like you said, it was just a nightmare.”

Silence. Then Belphegor pouts, electing to pinch his cheek and glare at him in visible frustration.

“Liar,” he says. “I can always tell what you’re thinking.”

“Right… Sorry.”

“It’s about Lilith, isn’t it.”

It’s not a question. Beelzebub can sense the slight edge to his words, restraining the pain he wants desperately not to show—but Beelzebub can feel his misery as if it were his own, flooding his system and furthering the upset that remains from their recent tragedy.

“It isn’t your fault.”

Beelzebub sighs. “Belphie,” he says, “why don’t you get some sleep? You look tired.”

“I’m  _ always  _ tired,” Belphegor retorts, lips curling into a snarl. “But I’m not going to sleep if you’re sad. And also...”

Beelzebub gasps as his hand presses against the flat of his stomach. Immediately, it lets out an involuntarily growl.

“Yeah,” Belphegor says. “I figured you were hungry.”

Beelzebub flushes deeper, thankful that he’s well-hidden in the shadows of their room. “It’s fine.”

“We both know you won’t get any sleep until you eat,” Belphegor reasons, “so go. Mammon’s supposed to buy food tomorrow, anyway.”

True as that may be, Beelzebub cannot suppress the guilt that fills his chest at the thought of emptying the fridge yet again.

He’s aware that his hunger is uncontrollable—as is Belphegor’s drowsiness, and Mammon’s avarice. All seven of them, in fact, have been subject to the sudden appearance of new urges, each of them vastly divergent but bound in a similar sensation of intensity, natural and instinctual and demanding to be sated as necessarily as one needs air to breathe.

Beelzebub cannot speak for how the others feel in light of their recently bound vices but knows with certainty his gluttony is demanding and vehement, rapacious no matter how hard he tries to fill the cavernous desire stirring deep within his gut.

His hunger pangs—like the one he experiences now—are near tortuous in nature, overwhelming and all-consuming, tearing away at his attention until thoughts of his next meal are the only ones able to occupy his mind.

His stomach growls, again, and he places a hand over his abdomen as if that will somehow stifle the desire.

Belphegor’s hand lands over his, and without much effort he manages to lace their fingers together. Beelzebub finds the gesture comforting, somewhat.

“Go eat,” he says. “I’ll be waiting for you when you get back.”

Beelzebub nods. As he moves to stand, Belphegor catches his wrist. He lets Belphegor tug him down.

“When we’re done with classes tomorrow,” he whispers, “let’s take a detour on the way home. There’s something I wanna show you.”

Beelzebub does not get the opportunity to question him. Later, when he returns to their shared room, Belphegor has already fallen back to sleep.

***

Though chaotic the Devildom, like any realm, holds a set of predetermined ordinances—rules set in place that more or less restrict the wild natures of it's inhabiting demons and maintain a surprising semblance of order.

These are laws Beelzebub has studied—has been  _ forced  _ to study, more like, by Lucifer, along with his brothers—and memorized well enough, made certain to keep them in mind as to not wind up doing anything that might inconvenience the others.

Though he also knows, evidently, that demons are not precisely pillars of morality. Established practices are bound to be broken.

“Hey,” he says, from where he walks several paces behind Belphegor. He glances around at their surroundings, already well aware that where they are is somewhere they should  _ not  _ be—a side of the Devildom they have been warned to stay away from.

A dark underbelly, where rules are cast aside in favor of acting upon carnal whims. Beelzebub feels his heart thunder against his ribcage, gazing around at the buildings that surround them, black and dark and towering high. Foreboding.

He reaches out to grab Belphegor’s wrist. “Hey,” he repeats. “Belphie. We shouldn’t be here.”

“Don’t worry,” Belphegor says. Gently, he pries himself from Beelzebub’s grasp. “It won’t take long. We’ll be home before anyone even realizes we’re gone.”

But Beelzebub shakes his head, unconvinced. “Tell me what we’re doing here, at least.”

“Well, don’t you get really hungry? And it takes a ton of food until you’re full, right?” Belphegor nods, an affirmation to himself more than Beelzebub. “I just figured we’d try taking a new approach, you know, to see what fills you up faster.”

Beelzebub does not trust the sound of that, but nonetheless allows Belphegor to curl a hand around his bicep and drag him onward, further into what will inevitably be trouble.

Lesser demons and apparitions flicker around them and watch them pass with eyes aglow, teeth bared, and it only takes a moment until Beelzebub understands why—they’re scared.

It makes sense. Of course it does. Though he and Belphegor are the least powerful of their family, it does not negate the strength they have compared to beings in the Devildom overall. Beelzebub’s power lies in his speed and physical strength, whereas Belphegor’s relies on a more cynical, shadowed approach, cornering and then overpowering.

Regardless of the security their status grants them, however, Beelzebub senses the inexorable doubt knotting in the core of his being, tense and uncomfortable and giving way to his current inhibitions.

This is wrong, isn’t it? They’d been given explicit instructions on where they are and aren’t permitted to be—and yet here they are, brazenly breaking the clear rules that had been given to them.

Beelzebub wonders briefly if this is what it means to be a demon, that he’s intended to give into his desires and embrace the denizenship he has recently acquired, become a monster akin to the fiends that surround him.

_ Would that be alright?  _ he thinks. Because whether he’s on his best behavior or not, in the end it won’t change their fate.

_ Fallen angels, victims to their temptations. _

He does not remain lost in his reckonings for long. As he’s about to suggest to Belphegor they turn around and head home instead, it hits him.

_ Something,  _ he realizes,  _ smells good. _

The sudden scent is like an assault to his very senses, swathing his body in a pleasant buzz. It takes him a moment to place what exactly the smell may consist of, and decides after a moment of deep concentration whatever it is must have a meaty substance, thick and rich and possibly chewy; more flavorful than most things he’s been subject to eat since the Fall.

Because Devildom food, aptly put, is an  _ acquired  _ taste.  _ This, _ however—this is a delicacy. Even at a distance Beelzebub can tell it is, and against his better judgement imagines what such succulent meat might feel like on his tongue, or pulled apart between his teeth. Delicious and dangerous, addictive like Demonus.

Predictably, Belphegor senses the hunger pang as it hits. He swivels on his heels and looks at Beelzebub with a slight smile tugged at his lips, clearly pleased at his reaction. Beelzebub can sense his delight clearly as it rumbles within his chest in a manner not dissimilar to a cat purring once it's been pet.

Belphegor plants a hand on his arm. He's snapped from his thoughts, though still the pleasant aroma fills his nostrils and beckons him closer in a way that's sinfully tempting.

"Please," he begs, unable to find the mind to stop himself. His fingers curl into his palms, a mindless, futile distraction from the desire that consumes him and threatens to careen him off the edge of his patience. "Belphie, I—"

"Don't worry, Beel," Belphegor tells him, and his gentle tone manages to catch Beelzebub off guard. He says nothing as Belphegor throws an arm around his waist.

They continue walking. Closer to  _ it.  _ Beelzebub, unable to pry his thoughts from the cavernous desire immersing him, has half a mind to start running towards it full speed.

Belphegor's next words are a surprise.

"It's for you."

***

Beelzebub does not know where they are anymore.

Eventually, they arrive at a small building. Belphegor makes an unknown gesture to the demoness standing outside, who lets them inside. Beelzebub faintly hears the sound of a metal door clicking shut behind them before he and Belphegor are enveloped in utter darkness. 

The only indication of Belphegor's nearby presence is the hand he has currently enveloped in Beelzebub's and the excitement that rolls of him in waves, filling Beelzebub with so much indescribable joy that, despite the ever-growing need for consumption that rumbles within him, he lets out a content hum.

"It's close," he says, without further elaboration. He doubts he needs it, anyway, given the way Belphehor laughs in reply and presses closer, tugging him along.

"Beel, you're drooling."

He is. Absentmindedly, he wipes at the saliva using his sleeve.

They pass through a doorway into a small chamber and a second door shuts, albeit louder. The sudden transition from total blackness to bright light has Beelzebub throwing his arm over his face to shield his eyes.

The bleariness is short-lived. Beelzebub is more focused on the source of the smell, which he sees now comes from the center of the room, laid invitingly on the ground and covered in a brown sack.

Beelzebub takes a step closer—wanting nothing more than to tear away the last thing separating him from such a tender, tantalizing meal, sink his fangs into the waiting flesh and savor every bite for the delectable flavor that it is—but stops just as quickly, eyes widening and cognition returning to him, if not briefly.

Yes. He’s certain the sack just twitched, then.

“Belphie?” he asks, and nearly startles when Belphegor materializes at his side. His horns and tail are now present, the latter of which swishes through the cold air in thinly-veiled amusement.

He makes a sweeping gesture towards the sack. It jerks, again, as the still-living creature inside makes a pained, muffled cry. It makes Beelzebub’s gut stir in exhilaration.

_ This is bad,  _ he thinks, though his body gives an opposite reaction. He hardly realizes he’s lost himself until he feels Belphegor’s hands on his wings, stroking them gently. The soothing touch and Belphegor’s whispered reassurances are the sole factors preventing him from lunging forward immediately, and he grimaces, sinking his nails into his palms a second time, nearly enough to penetrate the skin.

“Belphie,” he says, again. Belphegor hums in acknowledgement and he takes it as a sign to continue. “What is  _ that?” _

And, ah— Beelzebub detects a new feeling filling him then, fierce and impassioned and vitriol. Belphegor’s rage, as always, is unequivocal, like lethal poison injected directly into his bloodstream, and it takes all the energy he can muster not to fall into it.

“What do you think?” Belphegor asks. The words are spoken neutrally, bearing no audible detection of emotion in contrast with the anger that chills Beelzebub to the bone. He leans in to whisper in his ear. “What’s something demons always want, but can’t have?”

Beelzebub knows the answer immediately. His arms quake in sudden terror—or is it titillation? He can’t tell, can’t think—and he covers his face in his hands, his mind struggling to understand and then reeling as Belphegor’s earlier words finally begin to click into place.

“Belphie,” he says. He wants to move, both towards the body on the ground and away from it. Every second he spends engulfed in its thick scent is one closer to doing something he’s certain he’ll regret. “Belphie, you can’t be serious.”

“There’s no need to be so nice. It’s just one stupid human,” Belphegor tells him, matter-of-fact. He pulls away from Beelzebub and steps towards the sack, peeling it away to reveal a mass of sweaty, dirt-caked limbs, dark hair and fear-filled eyes, widened and pink from crying.

When the human’s gaze meets Beelzebub’s, terrified and pleading, he feels his insides stirring in a  _ different  _ way.

“I’ve never seen you this hungry, Beel,” Belphegor comments, as he tosses the sack aside and approaches him once more, circling round and placing his chin on his shoulder. “You’re covered in sweat. You’re really trying to hold yourself back, aren’t you?”

Beelzebub wipes a hand over his face. He’s acutely attuned to the labored nature of his breathing, near strangling as he tries to stray his thoughts to anything besides the very tempting human laid ready to be torn into, a forbidden course arranged just for him.

“I don’t get how those lesser demons managed to smuggle a human down here,” continues Belphegor conversationally, “but it’s impressive, wouldn’t you say? And they told me they do this kinda thing all the time, too.”

His tail slowly winds around Beelzebub’s waist, applying gentle pressure to his stomach. It growls in response. “Come on, it’s really bad to deny yourself, you know. I had to save up a lot of Grimm in order to get this human, so you should eat up already.”

“Belphie, I  _ can’t,”  _ Beelzebub replies, louder than intended. When he hears his words echo around them he quickly snaps his mouth shut.

Belphegor’s body shakes as he laughs against him, and it’s scary in that it’s intentionally misplaced. Beelzebub can tell he’s already teetered past the point of frustration. Impatience.

“Of  _ course  _ you can,” he says. “That’s why I got it for you.”

“Please,” Beelzebub begs, and with much effort pries his eyes away from the human to gaze into Belphegor’s. “I don’t  _ want  _ to do this. I don’t hate—” He bites his bottom lip, effectively silencing himself.

Regardless, the damage is done. Belphegor furrows his brows and peels away from him, visibly irritated. Guilt swells in Beelzebub’s chest.

“Well, it’s not a matter of whether you  _ want  _ to or not,” Belphegor mutters. “I spent a lot of money on this thing so you’d better eat every last bit of it.”

Beelzebub does not despise humans—and certainly not in the way Belphegor does, with intense, seething hostility, boiling a layer beneath the surface but not quite at the point of bursting.

His hatred is controlled, in a way. Just enough to remain hidden from anyone who doesn’t observe too closely but ever present all the same, a regularity that Beelzebub despises immensely. Sometimes he's left wondering if it's to dissipate, or if it will stain his tongue so long as they exist.

Belphegor, sensing his acquired displeasure, allows the fire burning inside him to subside, somewhat. A temporary effort meant to placate him.

It doesn’t. He’s hungry, and the way Belphegor urges him closer to his misguided offering does not assist in maintaining what little reservations he has remaining. He’s unwillingly drawn to the scent of struggle and fear, and those beautiful, horrified cries.

“Eat, Beel.” Beelzebub, focused on resisting the urge to succumb, cannot tell where Belphegor’s voice is coming from, only that he remains a nearby presence. The metaphorical devil on his shoulder. “You know you want to. Don’t you wanna try, at least?”

Beelzebub opens his mouth but no sound escapes. His gaze snaps to where the human is hogtied on the floor, following the way their limbs shift as they struggle against their restraints and the line of sweat that trickles from their forehead, glistening against the overhead light as it catches their chin and drips to the ground.

“Well?” Belphegor asks. The word gushes from his lips like honey, sweet and saccharine. Encouraging.

He surges forward.

His next actions are not entirely his own, but primal, instinctual. He drops to his knees and distantly hears the soft pop of tendons as he yanks one arm upright and bites the enticing throat, at last tasting the supple, fragile skin upon his tongue and realizing, doubtlessly, it is even  _ better  _ than he anticipated.

The human lets out a shrill scream that’s swiftly silenced, brought to an abrupt halt as Beelzebub’s fangs sink in deeper and then  _ tear,  _ ripping the delicate flesh apart and causing a cascade of blood and fat and muscle to ooze forward in its absence.

Belphegor mutters something, distantly, but his head feels as if it’s submerged in water. All sensations are muted save for the raw tang that fills his mouth and sends a gratifying shiver throughout his entire being, urging him onward as his fingers sink into the stomach, claws unsheathed and ruthless and brutal in how easily they descend in the layers of his meal.

He dips his head to lick at the blood that cascades forth and becomes briefly aware that he may now be soaked in it, but pays the thought no mind as he plants gentle kisses along the jawline, leaving red, mouth-shaped stamps where he goes.

It’s hard to place what this particular taste reminds him of. He takes another, smaller bite, tearing the soft cartilage of an ear and chewing reverently to determine where he might have indulged in a similar piquancy.

Yet, this meat—it’s completely unlike anything Beelzebub has ever had. Not in the time since he’s become a resident of the Devildom, and certainly not while he was in the Celestial Realm.

Long pig. Perhaps, he muses, it’s due to its forbidden nature that he finds it quite this refined, addicting, but he cannot pull himself away from it nevertheless, especially not after he’s already had a taste.

He eats, though not as hastily as he’d done with his initial bite. He devours the human as if it were his final meal, slow and contemplative, savoring it for all its worth. He appreciates how effortlessly the skin and muscle and bone bend and snap under his heavy touch, and holds a breath as he pushes a hand down against the abdomen and hears ribs cracking.

It’s arousing, he notes. And it takes additional contemplation until he surmises that the arousal is not entirely his own.

“I wish you’d taken a while longer before you killed them,” Belphegor murmurs, practically pressed against Beelzebub’s side. Beelzebub casts him a sideways glance and immediately sees that his pupils are dilated. “Imagine if you’d eaten their heart while it was beating.”

_ Damn it, Belphie. _

He tears open the stomach, exposing what is, he knows, to be the most luscious part of the meal. He curls his fist around a lung and marvels over its texture, wonders what it might have felt like were it still functioning.

_ Humans,  _ he thinks,  _ are ridiculously fragile. _

He bites into it. Belphegor sits back, watching him as he chews. He, too, is coated in the human's blood.

“Do you like your dinner, Beel?”

Bright jubilation bursts in his chest. He nods and nuzzles into Belphegor’s touch affectionately when nimble fingers thread through his hair and along his horns, petting him.

“Good.” He moves his hand to pat Beelzebub’s cheek, stuffed with half-chewed organ. “Have the rest, too. It’s worthless if you don’t eat every last bit.”

Beelzebub doesn’t have any qualms with that. He reaches for the other lung and only flinches momentarily when Belphegor grabs his shoulder.

“Wait,” he says.

Beelzebub hardly hears him. He brings it to his mouth, already salivating, anticipating the—

_ “Beel.”  _ Belphegor’s fingers catch his wrist next. “Wait.”

He pouts but obeys, ducking his head in barely sustained disappointment.

He’s about to ask if he’s done something wrong when Belphegor guides the wrist he’s holding forward, bringing the lung to his own mouth. “Let me have a taste.”

Beelzebub lets him. He swallows as Belphegor’s teeth sink into the gentle organ and pull it apart, gnawing almost thoughtfully and then licking the aftertaste from his lips.

“It’s alright,” he manages. “Then again, I guess my palette isn’t as refined as yours.”

Beelezbub nods, unsure how to respond.

“Well! Keep eating. I said I got it for you, didn’t I?”

He shifts, suddenly uncomfortable. He reaches into the warm, cavernous stomach and takes the heart in hand, turning it every which way, inspecting it. The veins glisten beautifully in his palm.

“I’m going to get in trouble for this, aren’t I?” It isn’t a question. He meets Belphegor’s eyes and Belphegor merely scoffs, turning his gaze away.

“I told you it’s going to be fine.” He sounds indifferent, but Beelzebub can tell it’s a front. “It’s not like you’re the first one to break a rule since we’ve gotten down here, anyway.”

He’s right. Still, Beelzebub never anticipated doing something like this, terrible as it is, but yet he supposes this is  _ also _ what it means to be a demon. Gone are the days where life was simple and pleasant, and he held happiness so long as he stayed ignorant and compliant.

As a demon, already banished for eternity, there’s nothing more for him to lose. Nothing, perhaps, except for his brothers, though every atom in his body is determined not to let that happen—not again.

Here, for the first time, he holds a human heart in his hands. The tissue splits at just slight pressure from his nails and it makes him feel  _ powerful,  _ immensely so, enthralled by its scent and its lumpy, defunct surface.

It was once warm, thumping wildly, in the instant before he’d sunk his fangs into that human's neck. Had he torn into their chest instead, he believes he would've been able to hold it while it struck its final beat.

The thought, expectedly, makes him hard. Or rather, harder. He can discern Belphegor is, as well, given the rising interest that coils in his gut.

"Open," Belphegor says. Beelzebub parts his lips and feels Belphegor's fingers press down on his tongue, coated in blood. "Lick."

He does. He shuts his eyes and laps at the coppery liquid until Belphegor's digits are completely clean, moaning low in his throat.

Eventually, Belphegor withdraws. "Good boy," he whispers.

Beelzebub gulps.

There’s no point in wasting time here, anymore. He can dwell on his regret later.  _ The human will get cold,  _ he presumes.

He brings the heart to his lips, and swallows it whole.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm also on [twitter](https://twitter.com/shotacatboy) if you wanna talk!


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